Abject realisation came to his face. ‘Oh! You work for Smudger Smith – sorry! I mean, Smudger works for you.’
Far from needling her, the comment had hit on a well-known truth: a hotel and restaurant’s reputation depended largely on its chef.
Honey smiled and decided she couldn’t help liking this young man. ‘No need to apologise. It does seem the other way round on occasion.’
‘Right.’
She sensed her source of information was closing down. It occurred to her to offer him a job at the Green River if anything came up, but decided now was not the appropriate time. In any case, she’d have to ask Smudger.
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks for the kitchen towel.’
She asked if Oliver had been confident about winning the competition.
Richard nodded. ‘He was before hearing that Casper had replaced Sylvester Pardoe. Pardoe’s good, but Casper is fastidious. Nothing gets past him.’
He was absolutely right. Nothing did get past Casper. On his death he could donate his taste buds to science, they were that sensitive.
‘So why did Pardoe opt out?’
‘Couldn’t say. Sorry. Have to go. Work to do.’
She couldn’t help feeling she’d been dismissed. She also couldn’t help noticing that Richard’s attitude towards her had changed the moment she’d asked about Sylvester Pardoe. She made a mental note to check it out. She hoped she’d remember.
After she’d gone, Richard Carmelli glared at the last packs of meat sitting on the table. His fingers tightened around the knife handle. He hadn’t meant to say that much. He certainly hadn’t meant to mention Sylvester. Now he regretted it.
‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’
With each word the knife thudded into the meat again and again. Blood oozed out through the jagged openings, ran across the table and dripped onto the floor. It spattered his fresh whites; it flicked up into his face. Once the packs were no more than a sodden mess, he threw down the knife, rested his elbows on the table and dug his knuckles into his eyes.
Chapter Nine
It was mid afternoon and Honey Driver was in the centre of Bath, beating on Casper’s door. Not literally, of course; she was merely entering the elegant foyer of La Reine Rouge, intending to ask Casper for Brian Brodie’s address, and also for that of Sylvester Pardoe, the two names Richard Carmelli had mentioned.
Her mother had arrived at the Green River just after lunch full of information about her latest beau and his white Rolls-Royce. It wasn’t the first time Gloria had found herself a guy. Her demands were minimal: when it came to character or age, she didn’t give a hoot, as long as they were rich.
Honey didn’t want to hear all the gory details. In her haste to escape she grabbed the first pair of shoes she laid her hands on and raced out. They were the wrong pair, too high and too pointy. Her feet were killing her.
Her phone caused her to hesitate between the outer and inner doors of La Reine Rouge to answer it.
‘You’ve got the brazier,’ said Alistair, the clerk from the auction rooms.
Her immediate vision was of a cast-iron tripod contraption with a receptacle at the top to take the burning coals.
‘Not me, Alistair. I didn’t bid for any brazier. I’ve got central heating.’
‘The upper-decker-wobble-checkers, hen. The bustenhalter.’
The cone-shaped monstrosity of a fifties brassiere, the cup sizes big enough to take a pair of prize-winning turnips or ten-pin bowling balls. She didn’t want it and told him so.
‘Alistair, you’ve made a mistake. You saw me tear that slip up.’
‘Sorry, hen. You must have torn the wrong one up and I was a bit too busy to notice. You’ve got yourself a brazier big enough to fit the Fifty-Foot Woman!’
This was not good news. Yes, she collected old time underwear, and conical-type bras had come around in recent years. Take Madonna. She’d worn one, though nothing like this. No one could look sexy in that particular item of underwear … with the possible exception of a Jersey cow. No point in arguing now, though.
‘I’ll be round for it,’ she said. First, she needed that information from Casper.
The fact that Oliver Stafford had been a ladies’ man didn’t surprise her. She remembered the look of him; only just average height, but a solid, trim build, classical features, and come-to-bed eyes. Mightily self-assured and oozing sexuality: a super stud in his own eyes at least.
Thinking of him set Honey’s teeth on edge. How many women had he seduced? She shuddered at the thought of it, though not because of the number; after all, only one of those women concerned her. Lindsey. She didn’t stop to ask herself whether she should tell Steve of her conversation with Richard Carmelli. Sod him! He’d blanked her at the Beau Brummell just because she wanted to make Bling Broadbent squirm. Now it was her turn to do the same. She wanted to find Oliver’s killer, if only to shake his hand. This was personal; her revenge on behalf of Lindsey.
She’d asked Steve what Stella Broadbent had said about the Masai warrior.
‘She reckoned someone hired him from a strippergram agency and that it was all a huge joke.’
‘And where is our intrepid warrior?’
A lock of hair had fallen over his eyes when he shook his head. Honey tingled from head to toe.
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Someone was out to make her look stupid. Apparently she’d been experiencing a lot of that kind of thing – you know – wrong deliveries – guests not turning up – parties of school kids arriving for cream teas.’
Honey couldn’t help smirking. Stella’s upmarket hotel and school kids were worlds apart.
Casper was perusing a copy of the Western Daily Press when she was ushered into his presence by Neville.
‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded without looking up, his tone strident and none too pleased.
She didn’t wait for a chair to be offered but sat herself down. She sighed. ‘Well, it’s only to be expected that it would make the front page.’
The paper rustled indignantly as Casper reappeared. ‘But that’s just it, my dear girl. We have most certainly NOT made the front page.’
Honey frowned and screwed her head to one side so she could get a look at the front page. The headline was there. Prize-Winning Chef Found Murdered .
‘Yes it did.’ She pointed at the headlines.
Casper sniffed disdainfully and fixed her with an accusing glare. ‘I meant the competition results. No mention of Bath International Taste Extravaganza until page three, and then only a few oddly chosen words. Grande Epicure chef wins local award. Local award! How dare they! And on page three!’
Honey raised her eyebrows at the series of exclamations. It was on the tip of her tongue to quip that topless models usually graced page three in the tabloids and that it could be an advantage. Some people had got into the habit of automatically turning to page three, though such models were confined to the nationals. Provincial papers didn’t go in for things like that. They had reputations to maintain, besides the likelihood of giving their more senior readers heart attacks.
She sighed and decided to get straight to the point. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about; the competition. I need the address of one of the chefs who took part in the final cook off.’ She got her notebook out from her bag. ‘His name’s Brian Brodie. I’m also interested in Sylvester Pardoe who I understand you took over from.’
‘Correct.’ Using just the tips of his fingers, Casper folded the newspaper and placed it to one side. Layering his hands beneath his chin, his piercing eyes fixed her with a challenging stare.
‘I don’t think I need to tell you that we could do without this very adverse publicity. The committee and I had envisioned an approach from a television channel – you know the sort of thing – cook something up in twenty minutes from basic ingredients. They tell me such programmes do very well. As I am not in the habit of watching television, I have to
accept this information second-hand, but I presume the food tastes good enough. Not that it matters that much. It’s the publicity that counts.’
‘Add butter, salt, sugar and oil and anything tastes good,’ Honey murmured. It was true. Every television chef she’d ever seen enriched with those ingredients.
Casper shrugged. ‘We could still be in with a chance.’ He leaned forward, his eyes more piercing than before. ‘I want you to deal with this, Honey. I want it wound up and finished with before we get a call from the BBC or any of those other wretched people.’
As usual Casper was at pains to ensure that the City of Bath’s prosperity was not blighted by bad publicity. He handed over a list of names. ‘Finalists and semi-finalists.’
She saw Oliver Stafford’s name and address. She also saw Smudger’s.
‘And Pardoe?’
He almost purred the information. ‘He was a judge. I replaced him.’
‘But why did he opt out?’
Casper waved an elegant hand. ‘In my view he wasn’t up for the job. Got last-minute jitters I suppose.’
‘Do you have his address?’ she asked.
He sighed.
She sensed he’d scheduled their meeting to last no more than five minutes. Casper was as fastidious about time as he was about appearance. Everything had to be perfect.
He pressed a button and Neville appeared.
‘Get me the folder regarding the BITE competition,’ he ordered.
Neville scurried off but was back in no time. Casper passed her a piece of paper.
‘Here.’
Closing his eyes, he lay his head back and spun his swivel chair. The interview was at an end.
Honey thanked Neville on her way out.
Sylvester Pardoe ran a restaurant in the Cotswolds. Instinct told her to speak to him first. The coincidence of him opting out of the judging intrigued her. She’d bear it in mind, but, for now, back to the Green River.
Her feet were killing her, her toes squashed to distraction within the wickedly witch-like toes of the spiky-heeled shoes. It was a case of walk barefoot or take a taxi, and there were no taxis around.
A third alternative came jogging into view. Some clever soul had started up a sedan chair service from the Royal Crescent and all places en route down into the city. Luckily for her a guest of La Reine Rouge had taken advantage and was being dropped outside.
Slipping her sore feet out of their instruments of torture, she waved it over.
The two men carrying the sedan chair were dressed in period costume, tri-corner hats, thigh-length waistcoats, knee-length britches and white stockings. They seemed only slightly breathless. Luckily for them the trip had been downhill all the way. Just as luckily, their passenger was on the plus side of eighty and weighed rather less than one hundred and ten pounds.
Honey eyed the chair with curious intent. Should she? In the hope of losing weight, she tended to walk as much as possible. Bath was a compact city, surrounded by green hills and nestling at the side of the river. But it was getting close to rush hour. Traffic was building up and she’d give anything to rest her aching feet. Besides that, she needed time to think and a gentle jog home might be just the thing.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Can you take me to the Green River Hotel?’
They eyed her up and down as though she were the sexiest bird they’d seen all day. For a brief moment she felt flattered – until the truth hit her. They were working out whether they could lift her. She felt like a side of pork in a ‘Guess the Weight’ competition.
‘It’s flat all the way,’ she added by way of incentive. ‘Well, most of the way.’
They exchanged looks and took a few deep breaths.
‘Right you are, madam,’ said one of them, a ruddy-faced chap with thick dark eyebrows and shoulders the width of a decent-sized doorway. ‘That’ll be fifteen pounds.’
She baulked at the charge, calculating that a taxi would be less. A taxi would also be quicker, but not nearly so much fun. And her feet were hot – almost steaming. Then there was that thinking time. Watch the crowds enjoying themselves and plan what to do next.
‘OK. Fifteen pounds. And don’t spare the horses.’
Even the face of the ruddy-cheeked man visibly paled. ‘You don’t mean that do you?’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘No. Just kidding. Take it as slow as you like.’
She paid her money, they took their places fore and aft between the shafts, and she clambered in.
The sedan chair swayed and rocked in time with the trotting bearers. The inside was lined with blue brocade. If it wasn’t for the traffic wardens and fat women in tight shorts, she could almost believe she’d travelled back two hundred years.
At sight of the passing sedan, heads turned and hands scrabbled for digital cameras.
‘Hey, Arnold, would you look at that!’
The same comment – without the Arnold – was voiced in German, Japanese and a whole host of other languages as they made their way back to the Green River.
The swaying of the chair was making her seasick. Fix your eyes on a steady point; that’s what Carl used to say. Carl had been a keen yachtsman. He’d also liked all-girl crews. Say no more. It wasn’t only the sails that got pulled down on a regular basis. Underwear rated pretty high on the list too.
She tried taking her own advice. Nothing seemed fixed. It hadn’t worked when she’d gone sailing with her deceased husband, and it didn’t work now.
So concentrate on something important.
Gulping down the bile, Honey sank back against the upholstery and thought about the dead chef. What had been her immediate impression of him? Good-looking. Yes, she had to admit it. She could understand why women fell for him. She recalled the wicked wink and the way his eyes had swept over her. She’d blushed. Oh yes, Oliver Stafford had been a charmer whose glance and sweet words could make a woman feel on top of the world. Not a woman of her age of course. Older women didn’t fall for flattery quite so easily.
A shout from the street caught her attention.
‘Hey, is that someone important in that there chair?’
Important? Yes! This could be fun. She’d play at being important.
Sitting bolt upright, she adopted the regal pose; nose high and hand waving like a slowed-down metronome.
‘Of course I’m important,’ she told herself and felt her spirits soar. It was the best she’d felt in weeks.
They passed from the busier hub of the city and into Great Pulteney Street. Minutes from home. Seconds in a taxi.
Guests coming out of the Green River Hotel stopped in their tracks, gawping at the liveried bearers and their swaying chair. Some ran back inside and returned with ever more gawping tourists.
The crowd loomed closer, cameras at the ready, batteries whirring in unison.
The bearers set down the chair.
‘Is that the Queen?’ someone asked.
Coming to a sudden halt brought Honey down to earth. She didn’t feel like a queen – not any kind of queen.
‘I feel sick,’ she said as she squeezed herself out of the narrow door.
‘It’s the motion,’ said one of the bearers. ‘A lot of elderly people have trouble with it.’
She threw him a killer glare. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
Suddenly Lindsey pushed her way to the front of the crowd gathered around the chair.
‘Mother!’
‘I’m all right, dear. I just need a bit of fresh air.’ She patted her face and waved her hand. Her cheeks felt hot. It seemed the whole world was a carousel, its spinning slowing as her eyeballs stopped pretending they were hitting tilt on a pinball machine.
Lindsey’s expression was unchanged – something between exasperation and irritation.
‘You might be OK,’ she murmured, ‘but Smudger isn’t.’
Bump! Her eyeballs and everything else was back to reality. ‘What now?’
‘I think he’s going to murder the butcher.’
‘Really?’
Unbelievable.
The Davis brothers had been her meat suppliers since the very first. They were old-style butchers and gentlemen, and although Smudger sometimes had a go at their delivery drivers, he’d never had a serious set-to with the butchers themselves. True, their steaks were sometimes returned if he wasn’t impressed with the ratio of marbling to meat, but on the whole things were congenial.
And why shouldn’t they be? Glyn Davis was seventy-eight but still raised his own steers and, after the slaughterhouse had done the necessary, he still butchered them himself too. Trevor Davis, his brother, took care of the general administration. ‘He’s got more of a head for it, being younger than me,’ Glyn had once explained. Trevor was only seventy-six.
‘Poor Mr Davis,’ said Honey as they headed for the kitchen.
Lindsey put her right. ‘Not Mr Davis. Mr Mead.’
ʻMead? What happened?ʼ
ʻHe tried to persuade Smudger into buying our meat from him.ʼ
ʻAnd?ʼ
ʻSmudger simmered and showed him the door.ʼ
The kitchen door swung on its hinges. Smudger appeared looking as though his head was about to blow off.
Honey prepared herself. Lindsey followed.
Smudger was red in the face and glared when she came in. ‘Tell whoever the duff nut is on reception that the next time they send a supplier into my kitchen without telling me first, I’ll pickle their nuts in vinegar!’
Lindsey mumbled an apology.
Honey felt, rather than saw, her daughter’s awkwardness.
‘Smudger. No nuts,’ said Honey. ‘Lindsey didn’t know he didn’t have an appointment.’
Eyes like billiard balls, Smudger glowered. ‘Just don’t!’
Muttering to himself, he stormed back to the kitchen. She raised her eyes to heaven. Why do I put up with it? The answer came in parts. Number one, he was a good chef. Number two, firing him and employing another meant getting used to someone. Compatibility was important. And Smudger and she were compatible – most of the time.
Honey considered all this as she and Lindsey returned to reception suitably chastened.
Sighing, Lindsey picked up a pen, fiddled with it and poked it through her hair to an itchy spot on her scalp. She avoided meeting her mother’s eyes, bit her bottom lip and looked apologetic. ‘The phone rang before I could tell Smudger that Mr Mead wanted to see him. As I answered it, he sneaked through into the kitchen. He said Grandma had suggested he pop in.’
A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 7